Lesson One Manifesto
I am looking out. I am stretching out. I am doing what I am told. I am

told to find my tribe. I am calling out. Where are you tribe? I have

tucked my hair away, I have let it grow. I have pinned it back. I have

shaved it close. I have died it platinum blonde. I have died it black. I

have worn cheap shoes, and ‘stay on’ red lipstick. I have pointed my

toes and I have sucked in my gut. I have said I do in a size eight

dress. It was called the Audrey Hepburn. I have softened my voice. I

have listened. I really have. I have worn plaid shirts and Blundstone

boots. I have stretched. I have held poses for three, five and seven

minutes. I have pointed to what I want. I have flown. I have fallen. I

have bruised my neck. I have sat on tables and laps. I have bent

down –  you know it! I have looked up. I have cowered. I have lay

crucified and sliced. I have turned towards her and her and her. I

have asked. I have bled and recovered. I have sneered and wailed. I

have read your diary. I have remembered the words but not the

story. I have smirked and said no. I have cried out – let’s go girls. I

have rubbed my feet and picked purple polish from my nails. I have

tossed it to the carpet. 
I have watched myself from an angle. From a corner. I have decided.



Lesson Two Character 
I sit on the bed and put my suit on in front of the mirror. I see my body

as the body, or as only a body. Pushing through water as if being born.

Even at birth the soft rolls of my belly were protecting scars. Joan

Didion wrote, ‘I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms

with the people we used to be.’ 
I am like I am just born. Like I was just born swimming all along. 
In Francois Ozon’s, The Swimming Pool the pool is a character. On the

afternoon of her arrival, Charlotte Rampling smiles at the pool and then

turns away. She warms her face in the sun. The next day she walks

towards the pool, bends down, and pulls away the thick plastic cover.

The water is leafy, murky, blue. It can be all three. 
The daughter arrives and swims naked. She swims the length of the

pool underwater, not touching the leaves, the murkiness, or the thick

plastic cover. Touching the blue.
I am a water dweller. I wear my glasses in the pool. Who am I to be

serious enough to have prescription googles? I go to the pool, but I

do not know how to swim.



Lesson Three Attunement
Contained in a rectangle box, a pool is always blue. It couldn’t always be

blue they will say, but it is, it was. Move slow. Across and then across

again. When you were a child, you swam at night and not only in a

rectangle box. There was a time it was in a kidney box. A kid contained

in a blue kidney box. A kidney removes waste and provides the body a

healthy balance of water and salts. When you were a child no one had a

saltwater pool. A pool is not the ocean they thought. They were wrong.

But it is not wrong that the human body is sixty per cent water. When

you were a child, your father threw you into a pool. He stood on a

wobbly ladder holding you. Go swim, he yelled. At the bottom you

looked up and saw the white glow of your mother’s hat. She wore it

always with one hand on her head, holding it in place.



Lesson Four Free Time

Do not attempt freestyle.
Did my half swim, half walk laps today. In the slow lane were two

women wearing snorkels. I thought of the word gliding. When I left the

pool, I was angry that no one had ever taught me to swim. I was only

taught to tread water. Only to stay afloat. 
Joan Didion knew the point of her notebook. She didn’t think she had

an instinct for reality. She instead told lies. She wrote the how of things,

how it felt to her. And it was a truth. 
I saw a girl on the beach with long brown hair.  Her hair that had once

been tied up tight (this morning?) was loose and messy. Her face a

grimace at the sand and sun. She stuck her tummy out like an actor told

to stick their tummy out. A squint. 
There are no laps in the ocean so I tread water. I ride a bike in the water

like I was taught. I count and do one hundred pedals.



Lesson Five Memory
Crossing your legs won’t help. Not for the swim. Not for the flow. Not

for the getting on and off. What do you need help with anyway? Your

cap, your straps, your sun cream application. Here there is a good

glaring blue. A lightness. The sun is safe here. This morning, he brought

a large tray to your bed. Your bed is a mattress on the floor. The floor is

all peachy tiles, cool to the touch. The walls are white stucco. The thick

sliding doors have wooden frames. He leaves them open at night. There

are no mosquitos here, no bugs on the floor crawling over your feet. On

the tray is filtered black coffee, fresh orange juice, brioche, butter and

jam. Some say this is cliche. Some say it is memory. He hands you the

book you are reading. It is What I Loved, by Siri Hustvedt.

You begin where you left off, when you ‘noticed the darkness that fell

over her belly and thighs.’ (page unknown)



Lesson Six Graduation 
Before my trip to the women’s swim night, I read a story about a Polish

swimming pool. Inspired, I eat half a tomato, pickle, and cheese

sandwich. I save the rest for my return. I don’t want to get a cramp. 
At the pool I walk freely. I do not wrap my towel around my waist or

chest. In the water my heavy body is easy to push along. With each

stroke my arms open a red velvet curtain, night after night, stroke after

stroke. Mothers pass babies to daughters and sisters. Women swim in leggings,

long sleeves, dresses, skirts. No one is wearing a bikini. The fast lane is

empty. Groups of women in the aqua play area chat. Laughs and

bobbing heads. It’s seven pm on a Sunday. 
A melody of chatter echoes in the steam room. I show the most skin.

Thighs, arms, chest. A woman wears a navy two-piece suit and black

rubber sandals. On her sleeves are frills. A rah-rah swim shirt. Her cap is

sequined, sparkling wet. Around her neck are thick gold chains. The wet

skin I see is her face, hands, and feet. I want to be included in the chat.

In her melody. Ask me a question. I want.